


Rhymes with Larson

by morelikeassassin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Comedy, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-09-24 19:50:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morelikeassassin/pseuds/morelikeassassin
Summary: A great and terrible thing has happened to the Institute, and the remaining archival staff bands together to mourn - or, perhaps, to celebrate.





	1. The Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _wake_   
_1\. verb: to emerge or cause to emerge from a state of sleep_   
_2\. noun: the wave that spreads behind a boat as it moves forward_   
_3\. noun: a watch or vigil held beside the body of someone who has died_

The meeting was a sober one. Jon, Daisy, and Basira huddled around the table trying to hide various emotions with various degrees of effort. Basira was holding up the best, scrolling away on her phone and pausing occasionally to type a manic sentence or two. Daisy leaned on her elbows with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, eyes fixed on something across the restaurant. Jon slouched back in the cushioned booth seat and stared vacantly up at the ceiling. He looked a bit like a puppet with his strings cut.

“I got margaritaaaaaaas,” Melanie sang as she returned from the bar, determined to make the meeting less sober in both a literal and figurative sense. She slid into the booth next to Basira and unloaded four pint glasses of acid-green slurry into the center of the table. Without looking up, Basira grabbed one and immediately took several very large gulps before slamming it back down.

“I thought we-” Jon started to say quietly. He cleared his throat and tried again, sitting up properly. “It’s ten in the… Thank you, Melanie.”

“Cheers,” said Daisy, lifting a glass. The other three dutifully toasted and drank.

With one last, emphatic string of text, Basira stowed her phone and fixed the team with a sharp stare. “So,” she said, “Let’s go over this again. Nothing helpful on the news, big surprise there, but I asked a couple old colleagues to poke around. Should have something for us in the next twenty-four hours. Jon, mind walking us through what you know?”

“I don’t, ah…” Jon took a second to collect his thoughts. “Right. At about three in the morning, I woke up from a dead sleep absolutely sure that my flat was on fire. But it wasn’t. I could… I could feel it, the heat on my skin, the wood starting to give way under me, but there was nothing there. That’s all it was. A feeling. Everything looked normal.”

“Get to the point, Jon,” Basira said impatiently.

“Basira,” Daisy chided.

“Go ahead, Jon,” said Melanie. She lifted her hand like some deeply buried instinct wanted her to put it reassuringly on Jon’s arm, but instead reached for another sip of her margarita.

“I, um,” Jon continued. “I don’t really know when I put together that it was the archives? That were on fire, I mean. I thought I was having a nightmare. I called the police right away, then I called you. I don’t think I could have driven there, I couldn’t- The, the smoke was-”

“Then I wasted about forty minutes figuring out you weren’t actually trapped in a burning building,” Basira continued for him. “Because you didn’t tell me you weren’t in the archives.”

“What was left of them,” said Daisy. “By the time we got there, it was mostly burned down.”

“What would have been a waste is if you had come to pick me up first,” Jon said defensively. “I needed confirmation on what was happening.”

“Confirmation? Jon, I thought you were dying,” Basira snapped. “You damn well sounded like it on the phone.”

“But you didn’t,” said Melanie. “None of us did. Hence, drinks!” She raised her glass for another toast, but only Daisy joined in this time.

She looked around the table at Basira’s calculating half-scowl, and Jon’s unconcealed shock. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “Are we pretending this is a bad thing? Should’ve gotten something stronger. I’m a better liar when I’m drunk.”

“I’m still trying to figure out why we’re not dead,” said Daisy. “Even Jon got out okay.”

“Aside from feeling like I was being burned alive all morning,” said Jon. He didn’t feel okay. He wished he could say he’d passed out after Basira hung up on him, but he’d been unable to. Instead, he’d felt the fire tear through the institute with as much excruciating detail as though it was his own body. When it was over, he’d just felt… cold. Empty. Like he’d been hollowed out inside.

“And we still don’t know where Martin is,” he added, trying to distract himself.

“Which is a good thing,” said Basira. This was the closest her voice had come to sounding empathetic since Jon had called her several hours ago. “They haven’t found his body, not to mention anyone else’s. We have no reason to believe he’s more dead than any of us.”

“And Elias?” asked Jon.

Basira looked away.

“Basira, what happened to Elias?” Jon found himself remarkably unbothered by the prospect of Elias being in danger, but it did make him curious.

“Missing,” she said. “I got a call this morning, while we were still sorting everything out. He’s just… Gone. No trace of how he got out or where he went.”

“Aaayyyyyyy,” Melanie cheered, “Not our problem anymore!”

A muted grumble of agreement went round the table, and they toasted again.

“So, what happens now?” Jon asked no one in particular.

“Someone did this,” said Basira. “We need to find out who, and if they’re going to come after us.”

“You’re sure you don’t have anything?” Daisy asked Jon gently.

“That’s the thing,” said Jon, “I really don’t. Not just about the fire, I’ve got nothing. It’s like I’m cut off from the Eye, or like it’s muffled, somehow.” He frowned, reaching as far and as hard as he could, until finally a glimmer of recognition sparked in his eyes.

Jon smiled for the first time in several months. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up from the table and walking briskly across the restaurant.

“Jon, what was that?” Basira demanded. “Jon!”

He called something over his shoulder that was lost in the din of the crowd; “It’s,” Basira heard, “it’s” something. She looked back at her drink with a sigh that was bordering on a snarl. “Fantastic,” she said to it accusingly.

“Are we gonna talk about this now, or…?” said Daisy in a hushed voice. She jerked her head towards where Jon had disappeared to.

“He is _not_ our responsibility,” Basira growled.

“He’s not just gonna disappear if we leave him,” said Daisy.

“Good for him,” said Melanie, swirling her drink in an uninterested little circle. “One more thing I don’t have to feel guilty about when I finish this and phone Georgie to come get me.”

Basira sighed again. “Guilt has nothing to do with it. He’s going to get worse.”

“Maybe,” Daisy said thoughtfully. “Maybe this’ll be good for him.”

Basira laughed. “Really? You think being cut off from the only structure that kept him acting like a person, and from his only source of food that’s not literal human suffering, will be good for him?”

“Worked for me,” Daisy shrugged.

“Oh, my god,” Melanie groaned, “Why do we care?”

Daisy and Basira went quiet.

“Look,” she explained, “You’re not getting it. He’s not our responsibility because _none of this is_. Not him, or Helen, or Elias, or whatever asshole thinks they’re gonna end the world next. As of this moment, we don’t have to deal with any of this anymore.”

“Only the parts that are still trying to kill us,” said Basira. “I really, really wish you were right. Just because we’re not responsible for this stuff, doesn’t mean we don’t have to deal with it.”

“Whatever else the archive was, it was safe,” Daisy admitted. “Now, all we’ve got is us.”

As if to punctuate her statement, they all became suddenly aware that Martin was standing a few feet from their table, staring at them. At first glance, he looked startlingly untouched by the chaos, a heavy messenger bag slung over one shoulder as though he was on his way to work. Upon closer examination, though, he was clearly going through several stages of grief very rapidly, and appeared to be on the verge of tears. It occurred to them all about the same time what he must have assumed, seeing the archives destroyed, and then finding them there without Jon.

“Excellent,” said Jon from behind Martin before anyone could try to console him. “You’re not dead!” He had a desperately big grin on his face and a fifth pint glass in his hand.

Martin stared at him quite literally as though he’d seen a ghost. “Yeah,” he said, “You too.”

“Here,” said Jon, offering him the margarita. “I thought you might-”

“Oh, thank god,” Martin said immediately.


	2. Custody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrangements are made for the health and safety of the ex-archival staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _custody_   
_1\. noun: the protective care or guardianship of someone or something._   
_2\. noun: imprisonment_

“I think we can all agree that it’s safest if we stick together,” said Jon. He did not, as he very much wanted to, look pointedly at Martin. He’d already insisted that Martin slide into the restaurant booth first so he could block his point of exit by taking the end seat. Martin, in retaliation, had scooted as far away from Jon as he could, and was now scrunched up against the wall like a tweed-jacketed gargoyle.

“At least for a little while,” said Basira, seeing Melanie about to argue. “We need time to get a sense of what we’re up against. We still don’t know how much protection we’ve lost; Elias could just have been manipulating us with threats that weren’t there. No sign of Peter?”

Martin shook his head. “No. Not for a while, actually, not that that’s strange. I wouldn’t know where to find him outside the Institute. Honestly, he might not care enough to show back up? It’s not like we have anything he wants.”

“Well, unless we get some pretty damn convincing evidence otherwise, he’s a threat too,” said Basira. Martin looked uncomfortable at this declaration, but didn’t disagree.

“We’ll need a base,” said Daisy, “Someplace we can fortify, keep supplies.”

“How’s that safer than going on the run?” asked Melanie.

“It’s not,” said Daisy, “But it’ll make it easier for us to be dangerous.”

“Speaking of dangerous,” Basira said coolly, looking to Jon, “I don’t want you unsupervised until we get a handle on this.”

The table went silent long enough for Melanie to down the rest of her margarita. Daisy pushed what was left of her own over to her, receiving a grateful pat on the hand for her trouble.

“Excuse me?” Jon asked venomously.

“You know why,” said Basira. She took a long sip of her drink.

“Okay,” said Jon, “Obviously, I have a bias in this, but even you have to admit that’s a little excessive.”

“Mmm,” said Basira, “No, I don’t think I do. This isn’t just about keeping people safe anymore. Right now, we need to look out for ourselves - all five of us. You’re the best asset we have, but you’re also the most vulnerable, not to mention the least stable. Absolutely nothing good can happen if we get separated from you. You don’t need space; you need protection, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh,” was all Jon could manage. He actually hadn’t considered his… situation, let’s say, from an angle other than him being a danger to others. It was a disturbing realization that he hadn’t thought of himself any other way for quite some time.

“You got a pen?” said Daisy, nodding to Martin. She had pulled up a map of some kind on her phone, and had a napkin spread out ready to be scribbled upon.

“Ah, somewhere,” Martin stammered. He unzipped the main pouch of his bag to rummage around in. “One second.”

“Don’t think I forgot about you,” Basira said sharply. Martin froze for a moment, and started rummaging faster.

“Really,” he said, “That's news.” Jon bristled at this, and although Martin didn’t look up at him, he did wince slightly at the motion.

“Are you going to disappear again?" Basira shot back.

"You know, I just might," Martin drawled. "Since you asked so nicely." He slapped a large fountain pen down on the table and slid it across to Daisy.

“Both of you, quit it,” snapped Melanie. “If I'm sticking around, it's not to listen to you two argue.”

“There is a safehouse,” Daisy interjected in the slow, measured tone of someone trying to write and speak at the same time, “But it’s small. Not someplace we could stay permanently.”

Jon stopped just short of interjecting that Martin’s apartment was large enough for all of them; his lease had ended not long after his mother died, and he’d used the extra money to move to a larger place in hopes of keeping himself occupied with the process. It hadn’t worked very well.

He glanced over at Martin, who was holding back the same information. Jon wondered if he should be suspicious that the only things he was getting from the Eye after the fire seemed to be about Martin - first his arrival, and now this. The more he thought about it, the easier it was to rationalize away. Maybe it was the Lonely fog still clinging to him, so deeply tempting to carve through and get a glimpse of whatever was underneath. It could even have been the opposite, that Martin was closer to the Eye than the others were. Maybe Beholding had missed him as much as Jon had. Maybe it was just… Martin.

Jon went slightly red, realizing what it would have looked like to the rest of the table if he’d casually revealed having intimate knowledge of Martin’s apartment. The conversation had apparently continued without him noticing. He was still too dazed to give it much focus, and the margarita wasn't helping.

"...afford a hotel. We're unemployed, now,” Daisy was complaining.

“I guess,” Melanie said doubtfully. “Did we ever figure out where the money was coming from?”

“Nowhere reliable, now that Elias is gone and Peter’s MIA,” said Basira.

“Could just stay in pairs,” Jon mumbled tiredly. “Groups, I guess. Throw some spare sheets on the couch.”

Daisy instinctively grabbed Basira’s hand. Melanie put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. Everyone looked at Martin.

“Hi,” he said obnoxiously, “What’s that have to do with me, exactly?”

“I think we’re outnumbered,” Jon told him in a mock whisper, leaning in slightly to do so.

“It’s settled,” said Basira. “You two can stay at Jon’s place, we’ll hole up at mine.”

“No,” Martin groaned, “What about Georgie?”

Everyone else at the table responded with a round of loud, fairly unified protests.

“Why me?” Martin tried.

“Thanks, Martin,” Jon grumbled.

“That’s not what I-” Martin said quickly. “Look, there’s a lot of stuff about where I'm at that hasn’t changed. I can’t just live with someone right now.”

“That’s not going to cut it anymore,” said Daisy. “No more excuses. We need you here, now, with us, and in this case, with Jon.”

“You don’t understand,” said Martin, increasingly panicked.

“Then maybe you’d like to explain,” said Basira.

Martin’s eyes darted around the table, searching desperately for some kind of support. None was forthcoming.

“...fine,” he spat. “Give me my pen back.”

Eventually, enough time passed that they felt reasonably safe from some kind of follow-up attack. The sign of this being the case turned out to be Georgie showing up to the restaurant. To everyone’s surprise, the first thing she'd done was demand that Jon get up so she could give him a hug.

“Promise me you’re not going to waste this,” she’d said, and she was so fierce and close to him that Jon couldn’t do anything but agree. “You’re going to move on, and we’ll be here for you when you do. I’ll be here.”

When she let go, that chill that had settled over Jon in the wake of the fire shuddered through him again. He slumped back into the booth and spent the remaining dregs of his energy trying to stay awake. He had the distinct feeling that Martin was staring at him, but every time he glanced up to check, Martin’s eyes were locked squarely on his phone, or Basira, or some fixed point in the distance that didn’t seem to matter as long as it wasn’t Jon.

Georgie left with Melanie, and Basira and Daisy packed up with the reassurance that they would get a half-baked start on their investigation. None of them believed they were going to get much done that day.

“C’mon,” Martin said brusquely, poking Jon in the shoulder. “Let’s get you home. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

There were quite a lot of things that Jon wanted to say to Martin on the drive to his flat. Every time he came close to one, he decided that he wasn’t really in a state to have the conversation it was going to start. It was excruciatingly quiet without the constant pressure of the Eye. It felt like his mind finally had room to breathe after being pressed into too small a space, and every tentative movement sent a wave of pins and needles through it. He was, to his disappointment, still hungry for something more than food.

"Here."

Jon stared at a scuffed manilla folder that Martin was offering him. He didn't remember leaving the car, or letting them into his flat, but they were stood there by the kitchen nonetheless.

"What's…" Jon started to ask, stopping short. There was really only one thing it could be. "Why do you have that?"

"I took it home for some research the other day," said Martin. "Not like it matters now, though. I haven't read it. Dunno if that makes a difference."

"It does," said Jon, taking the statement from him. "I think. Thank you."

Martin made a noncommittal noise. "I'll take the couch. Got any spare pillows?"

Another blurry few seconds passed, at the end of which Jon found himself standing in front of the hall closet. A clump of sheets and pillowcases was strewn on the floor in front of him, which he assumed he must have been holding. Martin was there very suddenly- Jon didn't know where he'd gone, but he was there now. He’d turned Jon around, and had a hand on each of his shoulders steering him back towards his room. Martin’s hands were the realest thing in the universe that Jon could imagine at that moment.

"Jon, you’re a mess,” he heard Martin’s voice say from behind his head. He heard a smile, and felt a small, helpless sort of sadness behind it, as though Martin wasn’t sure what to do about the problem except to give it a name. It was the first time since Martin had reappeared that his voice carried any sort of emotion to it, aside from annoyance. He seemed to think that Jon was too disoriented to notice, or perhaps to remember later. “Read the statement, get some rest. I’ll take care of everything out here.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon managed to say.

“It’s alright.”

“No, I’m so sorry.” Jon insisted. He dug his heels into the carpet just as they reached the door to his bedroom, and heard Martin give him a frustrated sigh in return. “I shouldn’t have let this happen. Now, everyone’s in danger because I wasn’t… I don’t know. I don’t even know what I did.”

“This isn’t your fault,” said Martin. “You- Everyone’s going to be okay.”

“Are you going to stay?” asked Jon.

Martin loosened his grip on Jon’s shoulders.

“Maybe.”

“Basira said-”

“I know,” said Martin, “What Basira said. There’s some things I need to take care of. I’m not going to leave you like this, at least. I’ll be around.”

“Will you be okay?”

Jon still couldn’t see Martin’s face. He didn’t like how long it took Martin to respond. “Jon-"

"Maybe's not good enough," said Jon, with as much steel in his voice as he could muster.

"Looks like I don't have a choice, then." Martin squeezed his shoulder once before he let go. "Goodnight, Jon."

The statement was enough to center him once Martin had retreated to the living room. Jon had the presence of mind to be grateful to Maria Wilco and her childhood dog that kept coming back from the dead. No tape recorder appeared to accompany it. Some of that familiar pressure had returned, enough to make it feel like his brain wasn’t leaking out of his ears. He was still exhausted, but at least lying down now felt like he was intending to go to sleep rather than passing out.

It took him a few minutes to notice the twitch.

More of a vibration, really. At first, he’d thought it was a passing car with the stereo turned up too loud, but when it happened again, he tried to lie very still and figure out where it was coming from. Something spasmed up through his neck, behind his eyes- was it coming from his chest, or traveling down into it?

It took him longer than he would later admit to realize that it was a heartbeat. A heartbeat that, he realized much more quickly, he had not had that morning.


	3. The Procession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has a plan. Several someones, in fact. None of them are very good at sharing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't catch the last "update," I tacked a little bit on to the previous chapter that felt like it fit better there than as its own section. If you don't remember reading about Martin seeing Jon to his apartment, go on back and catch up, I promise it'll be relevant later.
> 
> _procession_   
_1\. noun: the act of coming forth from a source_   
_2\. noun: a line or body of persons moving in orderly succession_

Although he hadn’t expected it to, getting a full night’s sleep had Jon feeling like some semblance of himself again. Not that it was exactly a restful night’s sleep. He’d bolted straight out of bed after discovering the heartbeat, only to also discover that Martin was nowhere to be found. His legs had then informed him that he was done moving around for the day, and all he could do was limp back to his room and drift angrily in and out of consciousness. He was still so mad when he woke up that even when he found Martin preparing breakfast, he decided not to tell him about the whole thing, and in fact to talk to him as little as physically possible until he got an apology. Frustratingly, that seemed to suit Martin just fine.

The safehouse turned out to be hidden over a coffee shop just across the river from where the Institute used to be. They weren’t sure if Daisy gained access to it by ordering a nicoise panini that wasn’t on the menu, or by fixing the barista with an absolutely murderous stare as she did so. Either way, she was given a “restroom key” and led the team up to a miserably tiny excuse for a studio apartment. It was packed with a futon couch covered in too many pillows, a surplus of bookshelves and lockers, and a folding table that was just slightly too large for the space. The kitchenette was neat, but cluttered, and all of the appliances looked well-used. A small pair of windows with tasteful lace curtains and frosted-over glass faced out towards the street.

“Cozy,” Jon commented. It was, in spite of itself. Everything about the room felt rounded and lived-in.

“Not like I was expecting guests, was I?” said Daisy. She tried one of the lockers, getting a stubborn rattling noise for her trouble. “Damn. I forgot we even had keys for these.”

“Still got mine,” said Basira. She pulled a small key from her jacket pocket and opened the box that Daisy had been shaking. “I dug it out from under my couch last night. It _has_ been a while.”

“Isn’t that police property?” asked Martin. “What if someone comes looking for it?”

Daisy and Basira exchanged a look.

“This isn’t really a police safehouse,” Basira admitted. “More of a, uh-”

“It’s a personal thing,” finished Daisy. “Dangerous line of work, you know. Sometimes, you need to carve out your own safety.”

“Does the barista know that?” asked Melanie, picking at the curtains idly.

“The barista knows to keep his mouth shut,” said Daisy. “And that includes talking to you lot. Don’t get cheeky.”

This was given a little more weight by the pair of handguns that Basira passed to her from the locker. Melanie raised her hand from the back of the group. Daisy made eye contact with her and silently shook her head. Melanie lowered her hand, and followed Martin to stake out a spot on the couch.

Basira opened another locker, this one without a key, and frowned at a small combination safe inside. “You don’t remember how to get into this thing, either?” she called over to Daisy.

“Here,” said Jon, “Let me try.” Basira made way for him, smiling slightly when dialed in the code without a moment’s pause.

“I see you’re feeling better,” she said.

“Ah, yes,” Jon said absently, “I’d say it was the statement, but maybe I was too quick to brush off this whole ‘sleep’ thing.”

There was a brief, horrified silence, and then everyone started yelling at him at once.

“You what?!”

“Five minutes, we literally couldn’t leave you alone for an afternoon!”

“Was Martin there? What did you do with Martin?”

Jon had to explain very quickly that no, he hadn’t just attacked someone on the way back to his flat, and that Martin had saved him a file from the archive. A sigh of relief settled around the room. He might have been feeling better, but this certainly didn’t make him any less cross.

“Really,” Jon huffed, “I should hope you have a little more confidence in me by this point. I’ve been trying.”

“Looks to me like it’s working,” said Daisy.

“One less thing for us to worry about,” said Basira. She had the decency to sound almost apologetic, so Jon didn’t push the issue. “Which is just what we need, right now. I found some details about the investigation this morning.” As Basira launched into her briefing, Daisy stationed herself at the table, cleaning the weapons with a practiced ease. Jon slouched up against the kitchen counter sullenly.

“They didn’t find signs of accelerants, but they did mention that the fire got way hotter than it could have without them,” Basira continued. “They’re calling it a freak accident.”

“It’s not even a little bit possible it could have been a gas leak, is it?” proposed Martin, knowing full well that it wasn’t.

“Gas leaks don’t leave charred handprints on all the load-bearing structures,” Basira retorted. “Not to mention a couple melted right into the stone.”

“Jude Perry,” Jon concluded.

“Has to be,” said Daisy. “That, or one of her freak cultists.”

“Wait,” Melanie objected, “That’s it? The Institute burns down, and it’s literally just the one arsonist we know?”

“Occam’s razor, I guess,” Martin said reluctantly.

“It just seems sloppy,” said Melanie. “Why would she wait until everyone’s out? Wouldn’t she want to take us all down with the place?”

“Not if she didn’t want to get caught,” Basira pointed out. “More people, more witnesses. We still don’t know how she got in - assuming it was her - and all the evidence literally went up in smoke.”

“We need to figure out why she did this,” said Jon.

Melanie snorted. “Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t try it sooner.”

“That’s not a bad point,” said Daisy, “Why now? Was there a plan, or did she just see an opportunity and take it?”

“There’s always a plan,” said Jon. “The last time she did something similar, it was only because Orsinov asked her to. There’s no question of whether she’d want to. It’s just a matter of who provided her with an excuse to go through with it.”

“I don’t think the Lightless Flame’s got much left in the management department,” said Martin.

“Same with the People’s Church,” Basira nodded.

“It wouldn’t be the Lukases, not with Peter running things.” Jon studied Daisy’s hands as she lined up the unloaded guns next to their clips and retrieved a stack of bills from the combination safe to count. “The Fairchilds have been financing us for years. If they wanted to hurt us, they’d just stop paying our lease.”

“I did ask a couple of the sectioned officers at the site,” said Basira. “Nothing’s been coming up in patterns, not like it did before the Unknowing, or even that mess with Maxwell Raynor. We’re dealing with something new.”

“Not necessarily,” said Melanie. “I mean, we are the bad guys, technically. Maybe it’s someone working on their own. That’s kind of a thing with hunters, right?”

“There is one more option we haven’t considered,” said Jon. “It could be that the Web’s grown tired of us.”

The possibility quieted the conversation for a long, solemn moment.

“I like Melanie’s idea better,” said Martin.

“Yyyyep,” Daisy agreed, flipping loudly through the bills all at once.

“We can’t rule that out,” said Basira, “But we’ve pretty well proven there’s not much we can do about it if that’s the case.”

The conversation went around in similar circles with no sign of winding down. Remarkably, the whole process seemed to energize everyone rather than being frustrating. Daisy bustled around checking and organizing their resources, occasionally adding some insight or criticism. Melanie was on her phone almost immediately, looking up the answers to general questions about locations and timing of any proposed scenario. Basira in particular was in her element, and at some point retrieved a large pad of paper for them to scrawl ideas and theories on. Months of pent up conversation and jokes and petty disagreements bubbled up like divers surfacing for air. Like the stranglehold that the Lonely had on them had burned away with the institute. The more Jon thought about it, the more he thought that that was almost certainly what happened. Mostly. He noticed that Martin remained contrary and sarcastic throughout the day.

By the time they broke for lunch, the tight ball of rage that had been lodged in Jon’s chest that morning was all but unraveled. Martin volunteered a little too quickly for a coffee run downstairs, closely shadowed by Daisy, while Melanie set to work making a large pot of macaroni and cheese from one of the boxes stashed away in the kitchenette. The place hadn’t been abandoned long enough for the food to have gone bad, and apparently Daisy had prepped for a fairly extended stay. Basira motioned for Jon to sit on the futon.

“How are you holding up?” she asked. Her voice was threaded with genuine concern, but also a stern practicality that was strangely reassuring. This wasn’t a polite question. She wanted to know if there was a problem she needed to fix.

“Honestly?” said Jon, “Good.” He wasn’t sure how much detail she actually wanted, or how much he was willing to share. He was almost surprised to find that ‘good’ was a reasonable summary. He considered telling her about the heartbeat, maybe even about how comfortable it felt in his chest. It left a warm, strong hum to fill the silence that the Eye had left in its absence, so close to music that he’d been tempted several times that morning to stop whatever he was doing and listen to it. Then, he considered that this fell under the category of things that were too personal and frankly too biological to share unless they were really relevant.

So instead, he told Basira that he was doing good.

Basira raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“No, I am,” Jon insisted. “This is going to sound terrible, but it’s nice having something to focus on, even if it is a crisis.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to say it,” she said with a short laugh. “The statements. You said Martin had one, do we need to get you more?”

“At some point,” Jon said uncomfortably. “I am still hungry, but I’ll be fine. I am fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m not going to wait around until you’re not,” said Basira. “That’s exactly how we got into this mess in the first place.”

Jon frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“For what it’s worth,” said Basira, “You seem fine. I believe you. But you need to take care of yourself, Jon. Not just for your sake. We need you out here.”

Jon looked away. He nodded.

“Plus, it means I have an errand to send the others out on while you help me with something else.”

Jon leaned in attentively.

“You’ve been seeing less?” Basira prompted.

“Loads,” he said. “The safe was it, really, that caught me by surprise. I got bits and pieces as we were going over plans, but nothing like I’m used to. It’s… been strange.”

Basira rocked back and forth thoughtfully. “Ask me something.”

“Sorry?” Jon blurted out.

“I want to see what we’re working with,” said Basira. “What we need to do will be dangerous. Ask me a question, and I’ll try not to answer.”

“Ahh,” Jon hesitated, “Okay. Ehm… Which one of you picked out those curtains?”

“Don’t even start,” Basira said immediately, raising a warning finger. “I had to fight for those. Daisy swore up and down they weren’t practical, but you try cramming yourself into a featureless room with no mental stimulation, and see how long it takes for-”

She stopped short, pursing her lips in embarrassment.

“Not what I was expecting, actually,” Jon offered.

“Shut up.”

“Right.”


	4. Incense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins, naturally, with an interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _incense _   
_1\. noun: a substance that is burned for its sweet smell _   
_2\. verb: to make angry _

“I would like it put down on record,” Jon said to his tape recorder, “That this is a terrible idea.”

“Did you buy that while we were out for supplies?” asked Basira.

Jon picked at the device’s price sticker self-consciously. “Yes. It’s not even a terrible plan, because that would imply that we had a plan, other than get boiled alive in our own blood by Jude Perry.”

“We’re going to be fine.”

“No, you’re right,” Jon conceded, “She might just melt our faces shut. That, we can clear right up with a hospital visit or nine, provided we don’t suffocate on the way there.”

“Why did you even agree to come?”

“Because I’m significantly more frightened of what Daisy would do to me if she found out I let you go alone.”

Basira shrugged. “Fair.”

Jon had agreed to her plan quickly enough that they decided to go that same afternoon, after the supply run. He still wasn’t sure of her decision to keep it a secret from the others, though he didn’t argue that both Martin and Melanie would probably say it was too dangerous, and that Daisy would take their side. He also conceded that there wasn’t a whole lot they could do to prepare for the meeting. Certainly he had gone after her with less.

Basira had apparently gotten Jude’s phone number during one of her conversations with Elias. Jon wasn’t sure whether it was a good sign that he caught both sides of the call that Basira made to arrange their parlay. Jude sounded eager enough to meet them, even at a particularly public fish and chips shop comfortably far from the safehouse. That wasn’t necessarily a good sign, either. By the time they arrived, she was already lounging at a table for four, along with a half-filled glass of beer and an empty plastic tray. The wax paper was peppered with little burn holes, like she’d dusted it with the embers of something she had eaten.

“You must be Basira,” Jude stated languidly as they approached the table. “Nice place you picked out. Lots of witnesses.”

“Standard procedure,” said Basira. “Not that it’ll stop any of us from making a scene, if it comes down to it.”

“Aww,” Jude pouted, “What kind of stories has he been spreading? I was downright gracious last time we met. He’s even still got the hand.”

“Good to see you again, miss Perry,” Jon said gruffly.

"Look at you," Jude sneered. Her eyes lit up with something that made Jon’s skin itch like a sunburn. "Still alive. Hmm. Disappointing. Still toting around the corpse of your dead god, too. You know what corpses do, don't you?"

“I have a feeling you’d like to tell me,” said Jon. He tightened his grip on the tape recorder, trying to ignore the fact that it did feel pretty lifeless right about then.

“What I’d like is to burn it out of you before it starts to rot,” said Jude. “Just like everything else you’ve bottled up to keep yourself warm at night. God, you’re even worse than last time… Did you get dumped, or have you just let that pathetic little crush fester this whole-”

“Okay,” Basira commanded, “That’s enough.”

Jude turned to look at Basira as they sat down, tilting her head like a curious predator. Jon wondered how many of her mannerisms were specifically affected to be intimidating, and how much of it just came naturally. “That’s right,” said Jude, more to herself than Basira, “You’re new. That is interesting. There hasn’t been a new one in a while.”

“Clearly you’re misinformed,” Basira said with a thin smile. “The archive had a pretty steady turnover rate, even by my standards.”

“Nice!” Jude laughed. “But no, that’s not what I mean.”

“What,” said Basira flatly.

Jude relaxed back in her chair and studied Basira for a moment. She shrugged. “Hard to say. I’ve been around long enough to recognize signs of something… growing. As for specifics, I could hardly tell or care less. I do have an eye for potential to be snuffed out, and you have that in great, big, greedy spades.”

“Well, if I need anything snuffed, I’ll let you know,” said Basira. “Until then, we’re here for something else. We know you burned down the archive.”

“And?” Jude’s smile grew sharp in an anticipation of violence. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“Survive,” said Basira. “I want to know if we’re still in any danger from you, or whoever it was who helped you do it.”

“When are you ever not in danger from me?” Jude said smugly.

“Are we being hunted?” Basira’s voice flared with rage, which only seemed to make Jude’s smile wider.

“If you were,” said Jude, “And I knew about it, why would I tell you?”

“Figure you wouldn’t,” said Basira. “But you might tell him.”

Jude locked eyes with Jon. They both understood that that wasn’t going to happen.

“Do you really want to do this?” Jude asked him.

“Absolutely not,” Jon said candidly, “But that’s rarely relevant to my life choices. Would you mind?”

Jude made a dismissive gesture. “You’re wasting your time, anyway. Your dear, sweet detective already knows what I'm going to tell you," she said. “You wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.”

Jon glanced over at Basira. Without thinking, he tried to pry an explanation from her mind, but the Eye was distant, and he was far too tired to pull it closer.

"Humor me," said Basira.

“No one is hunting you. They know exactly where you are.” Jude leaned in over the table, addressing her full, vitriolic flame to Jon. “One of your precious assistants let me in. Left the door wide open. Do you want to ask me which one it was?"

Jon found himself unable to move. Every gesture that Jude made was a reminder of how easily she could reach across the table and have him by the arm. Around the neck. The heat of her breath was palpable even from where he was sitting; he swore he could see it distorting the air around her face. It was repulsive only in the sense that it made him want to get as far away from her as possible, and still, he could not move. He had gathered up every ounce of his resolve not to flinch when she closed in. Now, he could not undo whatever it was he'd done to accomplish that.

"Who let you into the archive?" he asked.

Jude closed her eyes and took a deep, luxurious breath in and out. "Oh, Archivist," she said through grinning teeth, "I don't have to tell you. That is _delicious_."

"You told me you had information for us," Basira protested.

"And you struck me as someone with a stronger instinct for self-preservation, detective," said Jude. “I do have information for you. The archive is dead, and one of your so-called friends is responsible. They destroyed your home. All your hard work. Risked your lives in the process. And, best of all, they lied about it to your face. Someone you know is capable of that. Until you can decide who you’re going to blame, you have to live with the fact that everyone you know is capable of that.”

They sat in silence for a solid minute after making it back to Basira’s car. Jon tried to convince himself that he couldn’t taste the smoke from the archives lingering in the back of his throat, threatening to slide down into his lungs.

“Care to explain what happened back there?” Basira said stiffly.

Jon gaped at her. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go first, mine’s pretty short. A little over 32 hours ago, Jude Perry burned down a building that was, for all intents and purposes, more a part of me than my actual body is. It’s only by the grace of what I’ve so far been assuming was a literal miracle - which we still haven’t explained - that I’m alive, let alone able to do anything useful. Now! Your turn. What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Basira. She stared resolutely out the driver’s side window.

“Ohhhhhhh, come _on_,” said Jon, laughing with disbelief.

“Fine. I don’t know what _she_ was talking about,” said Basira.

“You knew it was one of us,” Jon pressed her.

“I had a hunch,” Basira admitted. “It’s why I didn’t want the others involved. I thought… I knew it wasn’t you. You’re right. According to everything we know, you should have died in that fire.”

“Maybe I should have,” said Jon. “At least then I wouldn’t have to put up with any more damned conspiracies.”

“Feeling a little burnt out?” said Basira.

Jon offered her an appropriately pained laugh in response, but it didn’t seem to help her mood. They fell silent again for a few seconds, long enough for Jon to study her expression reflected in the window. He was starting to catch whispers of the Eye again now that they were outside of Jude’s heat haze. They felt alien in a way that they hadn’t for a long time. More like they were coming from some separate entity than from something that was, in its very essence, a part of him.

He wondered if it felt the same way for Basira.

“How bad is it?” he asked quietly.

“It’s getting worse.” She still refused to look at him. “It’s… been getting worse. Ever since you came back. I could ignore it before - chalk it up to blind luck, maybe some deductive reasoning. Stupid. I didn’t get that phone number from Elias. I just… Knew it. Just like I knew Jude had an inside man, and just like I knew Daisy lost the key to that locker ages ago.”

“Basira, I’m so s-”

“Save it,” Basira cut him off. “I’m done blaming you for this. It sure as hell didn’t make me feel any better.”

“Does… this?” asked Jon. “Talking about it.”

Basira lifted her head from the window.

“Guess I’ll just have to find out,” she said.

It wasn’t a long drive back to the safehouse, and Basira insisted they use their moment of privacy to talk about the fire instead of what was happening to her.

“It’s got to be Melanie, right?” was the first real conclusion Basira came to.

“She’s certainly taken some of the biggest hits during all this,” Jon said sadly. “And she was the first person who really wanted Elias dead. Apart from Tim, I think.”

“Plenty of time unsupervised,” Basira continued, “Plus she’s used to working on her own.”

Jon frowned. “That could also be Martin. He’s got a knack for elaborate plans, at least.”

“You really think Martin would put you in that kind of danger?” asked Basira.

“I don’t know what to think about Martin, anymore,” said Jon.

Basira glanced over at him, stifling some kind of expression. Jon caught a glimpse of Martin asking her about him, fretting over his health. He declined to comment on it.

“I take it that ‘crush’ comment wasn’t too far off?” she asked gently.

“We are _not_ going to discuss my feelings in the context of anything she has to say about them,” Jon snapped.

“He still cares about you,” said Basira, with a casual tone that only barely sounded forced.

“He cares that I’m not dead,” said Jon, “And he seems to have convinced himself that I can’t handle that on my own.”

That broke Basira’s composure. “You know he’s right.”

“What?”

“Okay, no, that’s not strictly fair,” Basira conceded. “You’re great at staying alive. But as far as I can tell, it’s all sheer luck. There’s not a number small enough for me to rate your survival instincts on a scale of one to ten.”

“Excuse me,” Jon protested, “Whose idea was it to call up Jude Perry to meet over chips?”

“Yours, the first time,” Basira said breezily. Jon ran through several counterarguments rapidly in his head, each one falling flatter than the last.

“Not my fault people keep trying to kill me,” he grumbled.

“I’ll put that on your tombstone the next time you throw yourself into certain death,” Basira reassured him.


	5. The Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin explains his reluctance to move in with Jon. Sort of. By accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _vigil_   
_noun: a period of keeping awake during the time usually spent asleep, especially to keep watch_   
_noun: a demonstration in support of a particular cause, typically without speeches_

Something was wrong with Jon’s apartment. He hadn’t been able to pin down what it was until the second night after the fire. Two days of Martin sleeping on his couch. Martin had been almost scarily unobtrusive. Jon hadn't caught any indication of him disturbing a single item in the flat, nor could he hear Martin moving around when he wasn't directly in sight.

Martin's presence wasn't what was wrong. If anything, it was his absence that bothered Jon.

"Martin," Jon called across the apartment. Martin always seemed to station himself at the farthest possible point from Jon, as if that would make him disappear entirely. Now, Jon found him on his laptop in the living room. "Have you seen my mugs?"

"Which… Wait, mugs, as in several?" Martin asked.

"More along the lines of all of them," said Jon.

Martin looked confused, then guilty, then outright annoyed. "Ahh, for- That, yeah. I'll find one." He got up from the armchair and hurried into the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets seemingly at random. The shelf where Jon kept most of his ceramic-ware was completely bare, except for an inexplicable coating of dust. Martin eventually pulled a mug with a band logo on it out from under the sink, where it was hidden behind a few bottles of dish soap. He held it out to Jon with a cursory nod.

"Okay," said Jon, making no motion to accept the offering, "Why."

"Em," said Martin, "Well, I- It just sort of happens? Things start disappearing around me, so it looks like nobody’s been there. Not like, really disappear, just sort of go away. Like they’re being hidden. I think it happened when I used one this morning and tried to put it back. Normally it takes longer, but I guess it’s worse if I’m trying not to be noticed. Still figuring things out."

"With the Lonely."

"Yes, Jon," said Martin. "You don’t have to say it like that. It's fine. I'm fine."

Jon eyed the mug distrustfully. "I thought you said you hadn't been in contact with Peter."

"I haven't!" Martin said quickly. "This is personal. I'm working on some stuff, and I need it."

"Right," said Jon. "And this… Stuff, there's no chance that I could help-"

"I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon took the mug from him.

"Me too."

They had just started to retreat quietly to opposite sides of the apartment again when something occurred to Jon.

“Hang on, where are the rest of them?” he asked. Martin stopped halfway through picking up his laptop, and gave him an awkward grimace.

“I dunno,” he muttered, “Around?”

“Are you going to help me find them?” said Jon.

“...wasn’t planning on it,” said Martin. “Look, they’ll turn up once I’m gone. This is why I didn’t want to stay with anyone. One of the reasons, anyway. Basira can’t expect us to stay like this forever.”

“Let’s start over,” said Jon, adjusting his glasses over a pointed glare. “Martin, please help me un-vanish the parts of my kitchen that you made vanish.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Martin protested.

“I know,” said Jon, “And I know this isn’t your fault. But that doesn’t make it go away.”

Jon wasn’t, if he was honest with himself, even a little bit angry about the mugs. He was frightened. The disappearance frightened him for a lot of reasons, but Martin’s proposed solution scared him most of all. He imagined himself alone in his apartment after Martin had left for good, watching the mugs slowly return to the shelf one by one when he wasn’t looking, knowing that when the last one reappeared it erased the only sign that Martin had been there at all. Perhaps the only sign that Martin had been, at all.

He didn’t like the way Martin had said ‘once I’m gone.’

Evidently oblivious to Jon’s internal panic, Martin set his laptop down and briefly checked his phone. “It’s going to take hours,” he complained. “Can’t we do it in the morning?”

“I’d rather not,” said Jon. “I don’t like your nightmares any more than you do.”

Martin didn’t seem to know how to respond to this, so he just nodded and pocketed his phone. “I’ll finish the kitchen. You might as well start on the sitting room.”

They worked in silence except for the occasional alert when one of them located a mug. They were missing nine in total, including the one that Martin had retrieved from the sink, hidden in increasingly bizarre places as the search went on. There was one more in the kitchen at the back of the fridge, and Jon found another inside a lamp fixture. After two whole sweeps, Jon stood in the center of the sitting room, staring intently at the front door.

“I don’t think any would’ve made it outside,” said Martin from the kitchen doorway.

“No,” Jon said distantly, “There’s one in here. I know it. I just… Ah!”

He nodded, approaching the couch. He wriggled a hand under one end and tilted it off the ground effortlessly, revealing a dull red mug with the word SPORTS! emblazoned on the side in cartoon yellow letters.

“There,” said Jon. “Could you get that?”

“Hwhaaaaaokay,” said Martin, “Let’s- put that. Down. Slowly.”

Jon gave him a blank look. “I’m not going to break it,” he said, as if that would calm Martin down.

“How are you doing that?” Martin spluttered.

“Oh.” Jon considered the couch. Conveniently, he knew that he was holding most of its 73 kilograms over his head with one arm, and realized why Martin might be concerned. “Forgot about that. It’s easy to get used to.”

“Forgot about what?” said Martin, “Having super strength? How long has- right. Right, that would be since, um... ”

“I’m a bit surprised it still works,” said Jon, sparing Martin from the rest of that sentence. “Everything else has been sort of fading in and out.”

Jon realized too late that Martin had very little concept of what “everything else” was, and, of course, took it the wrong way. “Oh, god,” Martin muttered, “Are you okay?”

"Now that you ask, I’ve been very fragile," said Jon, in a voice so stern and commanding that Martin actually laughed out loud. Immediately, a hand flew up to cover his mouth, but the damage was done. Jon didn't feel fragile. He felt like he could do just about anything in the world to hear that sound again.

To start, though, he struggled to keep a straight face. "I might waste away entirely, at any moment," he continued dramatically, "Go on, see if I don't!"

"Jon, you- you shouldn't joke about that," said Martin, clearly conflicted between laughing at Jon's theatrics and being concerned.

"Never," said Jon, throwing his free hand to his chest in mock offense. "Joking, about my delicate state? Here, let me put down the couch so I can throw myself onto it."

Martin was present after that in a way that he hadn’t been before. Jon no longer felt a need to check on him every time he disappeared around a corner, as if he might cease to exist if he wasn’t observed directly. This was particularly helpful, since splitting up really did seem to be the only way to search as thoroughly as they needed to. It was nearly three in the morning when they reconvened with a total of eight mugs.

“You’re sure there’s not one in the dishwasher?” said Martin, punctuating his sentence with an enormous yawn.

“Checked,” Jon mumbled, equally tired. “Boxes, what about- did we check in the boxes?”

Martin made an indistinct, doubtful noise.

“There’s some in the hall closet, and in the bedroom,” Jon explained, “Just old papers, maybe it’s there.”

“Fine,” said Martin, “But after that, I’m going to sleep. Eight’s fine.”

Naturally, Martin stationed himself in the hallway. Jon barely stopped short of telling him that he shouldn’t, that he had some very personal, possibly embarrassing documents in there and he’d really rather not risk anyone seeing them.

But he did stop.

He stopped, and he waited.

Under normal circumstances, he would have felt bad for tricking Martin even as indirectly as this, but it was very late at night, and he was reasonably assured that he’d earned a bit of pettiness. Besides, Martin would have to read something of his own volition that he shouldn’t for anything to come of it, which some vestigial instinct in Jon was very acutely interested in. He hauled out box after box from his bedroom closet, not even pretending to search through them, until he saw Martin reading one of the papers.

“Old work for university,” Jon commented loudly, “I think that one was a poetry class.”

He made sure to appear busy when Martin looked up at him.

Martin flipped through the pages with a soft, absolutely enchanted smile while Jon pretended he wasn’t watching. Eventually, he got to one that threw him, and he glanced between Jon and the manuscript with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment.

“Jon,” he said carefully, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is this one… A-about-”

“Oh, god, let me see,” Jon sighed. He leaned over Martin’s shoulder to skim over the text, but one look at the title told him everything he needed to know. He smirked, and looked up at Martin. “I’m honestly curious, did you get what I was going for?”

“It’s-” Martin looked dumbfounded, “Is this about Batman? Did you turn in a poem about Batman to a university poetry class?”

“Calling it a class by that point in the semester would be a completely unearned kindness,” said Jon. “They were totally out of control. I was so tired of hearing people go on about the 'tortured nature of the artist,' or some slimy opinion about women, or how goddamn meaningful everyone thought se- Uh. Th-the point, I mean, is, um. I thought I was being clever. I just wanted to see if anyone would stop taking themselves so seriously for long enough to call me out.”

Martin’s expression had frozen in place just short of open shock. He recovered gracefully by the time Jon was done spluttering.

“God, that sounds painful,” he said. He sounded like he meant it. More than that, he sounded like it was something he’d been through. Jon could picture him in a cafe, or maybe a back room in a pub, with a handful of other poets workshopping stuff they’d brought in. It was a strange comfort to know that this image was entirely imagined, and that he didn’t know what, if anything, the reality of the situation was. If he did want to know - which he did - he would have to ask, and Martin would get to choose whether or not to tell him about it.

“Did they say anything?”

“Sorry?" Jon said loudly. A large part of his brain was still processing how close he’d come to complaining to Martin at length about sexy poetry. The rest was daydreaming about having a normal, human conversation with him where that hadn’t just happened.

“Did anyone call you out?” Martin prompted.

Jon took a second to try and flush some of the redness that had taken over his cheeks. It didn’t go very well. “W-well, no. They all went round saying very profound, artistic things until it was someone else’s turn.”

“Yeeeees,” said Martin gleefully, “I mean, it is a _good_ poem about Batman.”

“Why, thank you, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, I had a hard time separating out this chapter from the next, but this was about the right size and I know it's been ages since I updated. Should have the next one out soon. :


End file.
